


a permanent revolution

by dancingstar



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Gun Violence, M/M, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, les amis the friendly neighborhood gang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-05-03 09:49:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14566407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingstar/pseuds/dancingstar
Summary: enjolras is the leader of les amis, bane of capitalists everywhere, scourge of the evil oppressor, and loving boyfriend and friend. these are his storiesone where les amis fights the bad guys-.characters will show up in the tags as they appear.-





	1. bisquick

Enjolras can see his warped reflection in the metal doors in front of him. His suit no longer looks ruffled, and his hair, redone, looks professional, but even he can see the stress between his eyebrows. Forcefully keeping his hands still at his sides, he catalogs the people behind him.

The two directly behind him are at least six centimeters taller than him. Their arms are crossed, and one has proudly displayed knuckle tattoos and chunky rings over suit sleeves stretched obnoxiously tight over his biceps.

The woman on his right has been toying with her silver lip ring since he was pushed into the elevator. Back pressed on the railing, feet lazily crossed, her stance is relaxed. However, her hands haven’t left her jacket pockets, and the right one is clearly holding onto something. 

The woman on his left doesn’t reach his shoulder. She’s chewing on gum. Fake nonchalance. He’s been keeping an extra close eye on her. Enjolras has learned on countless occasions that short people expect you to underestimate them. Éponine has left him with too many painful bruises to disregard her as a potential threat. 

Dull elevator music has looped a dozen times now. His adrenaline has cooled. Although, his heart rate has not slowed since they grabbed him from the party downstairs. He’s guessing they’re trying to catch him unnerved, anxious, off-guard. Making him ride in a cramped room with a bunch of goons up thirty… forty… fifty floors isn’t going to do it. 

Enjolras inhales in preparation as the doors open. The obnoxious gym rats grab one shoulder each and push him forward with unneeded force. A naturally lit wide-open studio space greets him. The room is mostly blank save for the disgusting fixture in the center of it; unfortunately, this is exactly who he planned to see.

“Mister Enjolras! I’m so glad you could make it.” 

The dull looking American businessman stands up from a garish white armchair. Plastic crinkles under his feet as he moves forward to greet him, a fake, charismatic smile on his face.

“I’ll be glad when you stop threatening witnesses.”

Businessman laughs. “So quick to judge. We hardly know each other.”

Enjolras deepens his glare. If they hadn’t confiscated his gun he would have made a better home for his ammo in this man’s thigh. He must be broadcasting his intent too clearly. The semi-circle of crossed-arms and scowls tightens around him. 

“James Bischeque, CEO of Enviro Co., fifty-two dropped cases of which include crimes of child labor and negligent homicide due to insufficient evidence because no witnesses would come forward out of fear for their lives, married high-school sweetheart Janessa Williams, 32, two kids, little Michael and Peter…”

Click. Lip-ring has pressed cold metal onto his temple. 

Enjolras stops, but doesn’t drop eye contact. 

Mr. Bischeque sets down his flute of champagne on a small table. “Mister Enjolras,” his smile is now strained, “my family has no business coming out of your mouth.”

Enjolras smiles tightly. “They’re twelve. Twins, right?”

“Enough of that. We’re here to discuss a settlement.”

He takes a step closer, “The children you force into work are around that age. Aren’t they, Mr. Bischeque?”

Lip-ring grabs the back of his suit-jacket and yanks him back. 

“Any settlement that doesn’t involve you going to jail isn’t going to happen.” He snarls.

Mr. Bischeque moves forward and leans in close so that Enjolras can taste the expensive alcohol on his breath. His eyes are a discomfiting blue. A shiver threatens him beneath his skin where the judgmental gaze roams. He holds it back, clenching his fists.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to threats…”

“It always ‘comes to threats’ with you.” Enjolras says, though the pit of his stomach starts to sink. 

The woman not holding a gun to his head punches him in the gut. Hard. Biting back a groan, he shakes his head. He was expecting it, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

While he straightens up and catches his breath, Mr. Bischeque rolls his shoulders and smiles. 

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to threats,” his voice grew louder and forcefully cheerful, “but I can’t have you disrespecting my family, Mister Enjolras. You see, I read up on you, too. Can’t say I wasn’t surprised to learn you had a family of your own. You don’t come across as the family type.” 

Anger flared violently in his chest. If he– He would kill him if he even so much as touched– 

The goons grab his arms, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Enjolras had lunged forward at the criminal, rage blinding him. He jerks at the restraining grip, and then again goes still at the press of metal to his cheekbone. Heart racing in his chest, he tries to remember– 

A bright ding interrupts his thoughts. He turns– or tries to– to see who exits the elevator. He can hear the scuffling of a group of people. 

“Champagne? Really? I’d have paired a high-stakes threatening with a glass of Jack Daniels.” 

The familiar voice rouses a burst of relief and newfound fear from Enjolras’ core. He’s alive. He’s alive enough to criticize someone’s drink. He’s alive enough to be in the clutches of a dangerous businessman with dangerous people on his generous payroll.

“Then again, champagne pairs nicely with being an uptight asshole.” Grantaire says as he comes into view. There’s one man on either side of him, holding him upright. Enjolras sees the blood on his face, pouring out of his nose. There’s a bruise already beginning to form around his eye. He pulls again furiously at the meatheads’ grip. 

“Leave me and my business alone, or I’ll kill him. Right here, right now. Plain and simple.”

“Doubt you have the balls, Mr. Bisquick.” Grantaire spits at him. The blob of reddish saliva lands squarely on the toes. 

“Shut up, R.” Enjolras tries to meet his eyes. However, Grantaire’s defiant eye contact is wobbling in the businessman’s direction.  
Mr. Bischeque drops his grin entirely, takes a gun from suit pocket, and points it at R’s head. 

“That’s your gun? I have toenails bigger than that.”

“R. Stop talking.” 

“Listen to your partner,” he says, rage leaking into his voice. He clicks the safety off. 

“What, trying to emulate a certain appendage of yours? If so, you’re being mighty generous.”

Face contorted with ire, Mr. Bischeque starts to squeeze the trigger. 

Panic tight in his throat Enjolras yells out, “Stop!” 

Without moving the gun, he turns to face Enjolras. “Promise to never interfere with my business again, and I’ll consider it.”

Grantaire then meets his gaze; his eyes are suddenly clear. Enjolras understands. He exhales. 

He steels himself and growls, “Over my dead body.”

“No. Over his.”

He turns to shoot, but Grantaire lets his legs collapse, catching the henchmen off-guard. 

That is his cue. Enjolras falls backward, head-butting one of the meatheads. He reels backward, and with that arm free he elbows the other one in the groin. 

Lip-ring aims, but before she can shoot, he grabs the inside of her arm and pushes it away leaving her torso vulnerable. A punch to the throat and head leaves her unconscious. 

A shot goes off to Enjolras’ right. His heart rockets into his throat. Meathead #1 comes at him before he can check.

“R? You okay?” 

“Fine and dandy, sweetums.”

Enjolras takes a hit to the stomach. He rocks and takes a couple steps back. With a yell of frustration, he uppercuts Meathead #1 to high heaven. Blood from his mouth sprays in his face, and before he can wipe it off, Meathead #2 and Miss Gut-punch enter the game. 

Before they can engage, Grantaire appears behind Meathead and smashes the flute of champagne over his head. Glass shatters everywhere. 

Leaving him to deal with R, Gut-punch turns to Enjolras with a sneer. He feigns a punch with his right, going for a low blow with his left. She blocks his fist and goes for his head. He dodges. She ducks. He misses. She misses. It would feel like a dance if not for the blazing, fiery anger in his chest. How could she work for such a despicable person? How could she see the lives he’s ruined and still try to protect him? 

Another shot echoes through the air.

Gut-punch falls to the ground, a new hole in her temple. 

Enjolras whirls around to see Grantaire lowering Mr. Bischeque’s gun. His nose is bleeding with renewed furiosity, his left eye is completely dark, but he’s smiling, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“I would kill for a drink right now.” R wiggles his eyebrows.

Enjolras scoffs and rolls his eyes. At the same time, he pulls Grantaire in for a tight embrace. 

“You’re the worst. You had me scared.”

Grantaire’s chuckle is muffled by the fabric of his suit. “I’m offended you thought those goonies could take me down.” His words are teasing, but Enjolras can feel how R is leaning his weight onto him. 

He doesn’t respond. Absently, he wonders how the hell they’re getting out of here without arousing suspicion. That’s a problem for later. No one knows they’re here. Mr. Bischeque made sure of that. In the meantime, he rests his cheek in Grantaire’s curls and takes a deep breath.


	2. keeper

It doesn’t help that Grantaire is one of their bruisers. When things are bound to get physical, you take him along. The regretable side effect of this is that he’s bruised and bleeding more often than he isn’t. 

In fact, Grantaire came to be in their company thanks to a spectacular bar fight against three large, surly, and very drunk patrons. Enjolras wasn’t there, but Bahorel and Jehan were. They weren’t one to slack on the details.

\---

One of Jehan’s most favorite activities is people-watching. Some of the greatest inspirations come from the realistic beauty of real people. They walk with their strengths and struggles on their own shoulders and share and see a unique perspective with their eyes. 

Though they didn’t know him yet, Grantaire was one of those people. 

Indistinguishable music is beating behind the roar of conversation. Sat at a table by the wall, they are sipping on a bright blue concoction beside Bahorel and his third beer when he walks in. He makes no grand entrance. His focus is on the bar. 

“God, he looks like he needs a drink.” Bahorel says, following Jehan’s line of sight.

They hum in agreement. There’s a freshly stitched slash through his left eyebrow. His dark eyes are drawn low, followed heavily by the weight of the bags beneath them. He sits down at the bar with his back to them.

“Where do you suppose he got that…” he trails off, rubbing a finger above his own eye.

Jehan sips their drink pensively. “I bet it’s a great story…defending someone’s honor, knife fight, hopefully.”

Bahorel snorts, “’Hopefully.’” He pauses to tip back his bottle. “I bet he tripped up the stairs.”

Pouting, Jehan hits him playfully on the shoulder. “You’re just grumpy ‘cuz Feuilly’s away. I think he looks interesting.”

He does. Though they cannot see his face, the set of his shoulders appears wary. He’d ordered a whiskey, neat, and made quick work of it. Now, he’s fiddling with something in his hands. Every time the door opens, he freezes. If Jehan were to guess, he’s sizing up everyone that enters the bar from the corner of his eye.

“Hm. Not your usual type, Jehan.”

Sighing, they respond, “Not why I’m watching… I think he’s waiting for someone.” They rest their chin in their hand. They have a feeling something entertaining is going to happen.

Bahorel’s response to this supposition is skeptical, but they can tell he’s curious now. Instead of watching a sports match near the ceiling, his eyes are down at the bar. 

Sure enough, after finishing another whiskey, the man at the bar shoves something into his pocket and tenses his shoulders. Jehan turns to see a massive white bald man step into the room. He’s at least six feet tall, wearing a white T-shirt and Levi’s. Better yet, upon seeing Jehan’s fixation sitting there, his already angry face rearranges itself into something angrier. 

The din of the bar is already loud, but the bellow of this man easily surpasses it. “Grantaire! The fuck are you doing here?”

Not getting up, barely turning his head, the man responds, too far away and quiet to hear. The smile, the half they can see, is lazy and clearly infuriating. 

Bahorel is grinning, now. 

The bald man has pulled the man, Grantaire, from his stool. Two of his buddies are behind him, preparing for a showdown with glee. One has a denim cap on backwards and sunglasses on top of his head. It’s not even sunny outside. The other, easily two hundred and fifty pounds, is cracking his knuckles like a bully from a sitcom.

Jehan, busy scrutinizing them, misses the first guy hitting the floor. By now, the bar has created a wide space around the altercation, and Bahorel lets out a cheer, accompanying the sound of shattering glass. 

Over the sudden eruption of chaos, he yells, “your instincts are fucking incredible, Jehan!” 

While the bartender, apparently familiar with the men involved, calls an ambulance, Grantaire quickly exits the bar, leaving the mayhem behind him.

Jehan and Bahorel eagerly gather their things and follow. 

They don’t have to go far. Grantaire is outside, leaning against the brick lighting a cigarette, mottled knuckles on display. Under the artificial light, Jehan can see more of him. Scrappy and artistic are the first words that come to mind. There’s a bruise blooming on his cheek. He’s missed a day or two of shaving, and he’s wearing black jeans and a large jean jacket, both stained with smears of various colors. 

At the two of them blatantly staring, he says, “Show’s over, fellas. That’s all I have in me tonight.” 

Jehan smiles, “Well, I hope to see you around, Grantaire.”

“Seconded, man. That was bad-ass.” Bahorel says from behind them. 

Looking intrigued, confused, and ultimately exhausted, Grantaire nods. 

And that was that… at least for a couple of days.

 

Jehan, for the entire day afterward, couldn’t help but think about that man. He stands at about five foot seven, has wild, dark hair, and kicks down three brutes after two drinks. His relaxed and tricky fighting style isn’t like what they’ve ever seen. Everything about him screams a wild force someone tried their best to tame, and lost.

This relentless curiosity is why he and Bahorel are currently standing outside a boxing gym. 

Jehan had mentioned him to all of their friends. This person couldn’t have escaped all of their notice. Surely enough, he was once a friend of Éponine’s. He was a drinking buddy from college. Both having dropped out, they hadn’t kept in touch, but she had been able to direct them here.

Through the glass, they get a decent view of most of the gym. It’s mostly empty, being midafternoon on a Monday. This was by design. Inside, Grantaire is unwrapping his hands.

Bahorel, in turn, begins to roll up his sleeves, baring his tattooed arms.

“You know you’re not being replaced, right?” Jehan pats his shoulder. “It’s safer with more of you tough-guys.” 

He shakes his head. “It’s not that. I asked around about this guy, and no two people agreed on anything. He talks a big game but no one has any fucking clue what he’s playing.”

Jehan says after a moments pause, “Well, maybe that’s what he wants.” 

“Maybe,” he says, “but I like to know what I’m walking into.”

“He’s actually walking out to us.” They smile, amused. They’ve positioned themselves on either side of the door– a gently laid trap, as Éponine had put it. 

Bahorel rolls his eyes.

Jehan notices the second Grantaire recognizes them, a few meters from the exit. They’re aware of how their expressionistic way of dressing makes for a lasting impression. ‘Memorable people create more memories,’ is what they like to say. ‘None of those prints go together,’ is what people usually say in response.

There’s barely a halt in his stride, but his eyes widen a fraction, and the wary posture from last night reappears. 

He pushes open the door and swaggers out, forcing a relaxed stance. “Don’t get me wrong. You’re both hot as hell, but threesomes don’t do it for me anymore.” 

Ah, a defense mechanism.

Jehan twirls a lock of their hair. “Then you’re not doing it with the right people.” 

This makes Bahorel laugh and Grantaire pause. He meets eye contact with Jehan and considers them for a second before smiling lazily.

“You two couldn’t afford me.” He looks then at Bahorel. “Besides, wouldn’t Feuilly be put out?” 

Interesting. He’s shifting the focus. Bahorel crosses his arms and shifts forward, a fair move, but Jehan doesn’t think intimidation really works on this guy.

“You’ve looked us up, then.” Jehan lets the conversation move in this direction. It’s the direction they were planning on taking it eventually.

“Don’t let it go to your head. I look up every hottie that flirts with me.” 

“I’m flattered,” Jehan presses both hands to their chest as they sing-song, “but I’m taken by fondness for another. However, I’d like to introduce you to a couple of our work friends. They can most assuredly afford you.”

This wipes away the playful expression, leaving a more serious one in its place.

“I don’t believe in what you guys are doing. My loyalty is to my paycheck.”

Bahorel cuts in, “Don’t screw us, do what you’re told, and you’ll get one.”

It’s a nice touch. Jehan smiles and says, “We’re headed to meet with them now, if you’d like to join us.”

 

The meeting is in full swing when they arrive, Grantaire in tow. Enjolras, ever so passionate, is standing on his chair. Why he thinks he needs to is incomprehensible. He’s at least six feet tall, pissed off, and golden. More than that, he speaks with such fervor and stands before unforgiving crowds without fear. He could kneel before ruthless rulers of worlds and move them to tears with his words and his eyes. 

Behind them, they hear Grantaire mutter, “Holy shit.” 

No kidding. 

Bahorel chuckles quietly and says, “He’s way out of your league, dude.”

“Oh, yeah? Watch me.” Grantaire responds. “Hey, blondie!”

The room falls silent. Even Enjolras abruptly shuts his mouth. Everyone watches as he regards the newcomer, his eyes narrowed. If there were popcorn available, there would be munching going on.

“Who is this, Jehan?”

Jehan doesn’t even try to reply. 

Grantaire steps forward, past them and Bahorel and says, with the most genuine smile they’ve seen on the man, “I’m your new keeper.”  
\---

 

And honestly? It’s been hell ever since.


	3. control

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are seated by the window when Enjolras reaches the top of the stairs. The morning sun is golden, creating panels of light over the clean white of the tablecloth. Courf, with his back to him, is wildly gesticulating to a nodding Combeferre, who is reading a menu strategically positioned between him and the flying hands. 

“Morning, Enjolras. Sun too bright? Want me to pull the curtains?” 

He shakes his head at the barista. This is just a meeting between friends. There’s no need to make it private.

At his name, Courf turns around, smile wide and bright. His eyes follow him as he takes his place next to the window, practically vibrating in his seat. 

“I thought we decided no more sugar in his coffee, Ferre.” He opens the menu to hide is smirk. It’s purposefully unsuccessful.

“You know I can’t control him any more than you can,” is Combeferre’s monotone reply over Courf’s dramatic gasp.

“Slander! Betrayal on all sides!”

Enjolras smiles and examines the weekly specials. “Anything in the wind?” he asks. In desperate need of coffee of his own, he lifts his hand toward the waitress.   
Courf clasps both hands around his mug. “I figured after the mess with Bisquick– ” 

Enjolras groans, “R has you calling him that, too?”

“Shut up! It’s funny. Anyway, after the mess with Bisquick, that you made by the way, we need to lay low for a while.” 

Enjolras smiles as he takes the cup from the waitress. The conversation pauses as she walks away. Staring at it between his hands, he tries to ignore the dig about the fiasco two weeks ago. He still believes he made the right call regardless of the explosive media coverage that followed.

“Any news from Feuilly?”

“No, and I wasn’t finished.” Courfeyrac continues, voice lowered, “Les Amis has been labeled a terrorist organization by the American government. Either we need to talk to them, or we need to stay out of their hair for a couple months.”

There’s a whole lot of terrible that can happen in a couple months. Before Enjolras can ask, Combeferre says, “We’d go in, posing as victims: feed info, stick a bug, and leave.”

“Who would you send?” 

“Jehan. Likely Bahorel, too, for back-up.”

“Alright. We can talk to them later.” 

The waitress, Alyssa, he thinks, then walks over with blatantly fake cheer. 

“Gentlemen! There’s a man looking for Enjolras downstairs. It’s some business to do with his daughter.” Her arms are stiff at her sides, an uncharacteristically nervous posture.

“It’s probably Mr. Dunn. He’s convinced his kid is part of some governmental conspiracy.” Enjolras drains the last of his drink. He’s tried countless times to get Mr. Dunn help–

A commotion erupts, coming from downstairs. Someone is shouting. He can’t make out the words, but he can definitely hear the anger. This is soon followed by a series of crashes, chairs and tables probably, and a final loud bang. That last noise better not be what it sounds like. 

The three of them stand. Enjolras gets out from behind the table. He rests his hand on his gun under his jacket as the sound of footsteps comes barreling up the stairs. He directs Alyssa and the barista to hide behind the counter and braces himself.

The man that bursts through the doorway is smart enough to stop a couple meters away from their table. His eyes are wide, lucid, but hold a wealth of emotion. There’s a gun shaking in his grip. Shit. 

“I’ve come for Enjolras.” 

He steps forward, stepping away from his friends. The man’s aim looks to be shoddy at best. Keeping one hand on the holster, he puts his other out in, what he hopes is, a placating gesture.

“I’m him. What do you want?”

“Enjolras.” Courfeyrac hisses.

Yeah. That could have been put more delicately, but people don’t usually come to him looking for ‘delicate.’ They also don’t usually interrupt brunch with a deadly weapon in hand.

“I… I can’t. I have to… I have to kill you.” 

Fuck.

To his left, Courfeyrac pulls out his gun, pointing it at the dead center of his forehead. He won’t miss.

The man then raises his own, waving it wildly between the two of them. His voice begins to wobble as it grows in volume, “I’ll do it! Don’t think I won’t!”

“Courf, put your gun down.” Combeferre says in an urgent undertone.

Enjolras sees the bewilderment splash over his stony expression like a cocktail on an unfaithful spouse. He’s in complete agreement. What the hell is he–

“No way in hell!”

“Trust me.” 

Combeferre is the most reliable person he knows, but this seems like the wrong situation to disarm oneself. With visible, painful reluctance, Courf holsters his weapon. He doesn’t take his hand away, Enjolras notes. It’s a small relief. He can defend himself, but there’s almost nothing more reassuring than having Courfeyrac at his defense.

“’Ferre, what are you doing?” He asks, still frustratingly out of the loop.

Stepping into the line of fire, apparently. Enjolras’s heart lurches. His brain screams at him that Combeferre is defenseless. He’s the only one of them who refuses to arm himself; believing in words and character instead. It takes all of his trust in his friend not to push him to safety. 

Hands open, effortlessly calm, he begins to speak.

“Sir, what’s your name?”

Confused by this turn of events, the man blanks before shaking his head.

“What... No! Get out of the way. I have to kill the leader of Les Amis.”

Combeferre nods. “Why?” 

“Why?” Water appears at the bottom of his eyes. “It’s for everyone’s safety. He’s brought hell on all of us.” He uses the gun to point at Enjolras. Everyone flinches at the movement. Courfeyrac’s jaw is clenching tighter and tighter.

“I am also a leader of Les Amis. Why don’t you want to kill me?”

Both Enjolras and Courfeyrac hiss his name. Is he trying to get shot?

“Shut up! I have to do this. Get out of the way.”

“Tell me your name, sir.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Why not? You can’t expect to get out of here.”

The words hit the man like physical blows. Tears crest the waterline. 

“No, I can’t, but I’m not here for me.” 

Realization dawns on Enjolras. He should have noticed the signs. “We can help you,” he says, removing his hand from his weapon. Combeferre meets his eyes, brown and steady, and nods, small and quick. He turns back to the issue at hand.

“We have the resources. Just tell us their name, sir.”

“If I don’t kill him, they’ll kill my daughter. I have to do this.” Exhaustion is clear on his face. The hand holding the gun falls to his side, a testament to how far this man is out of his element.

Enjolras rushes forward and wrenches his wrist behind him, causing the weapon to fall to the hardwood with a clatter. Holding both arms pressed to his back, he pushes the man into the counter. Ignoring Combeferre’s protests, he grips his shoulder and pulls him upright.

Into his ear, he intones, a hair away from seething, “Les Amis works to correct the harm being done in the world. We don’t cause it. Next time, ask for help, or we won’t hesitate to defend ourselves.”

Enjolras checks him for additional weapons before backing away. 

He turns around, glad to see that someone had collected the gun from the floor. Combeferre and Courfeyrac have returned to their seats. Exhaling a load of nervous energy, he joins them. He notices the iron clamp of Courf’s hand around Combeferre’s wrist, and the subtle shaking of the table from him bouncing his leg. He decides against commenting on that or the amused smile on ‘Ferre’s face. 

“E- Excuse me, gentlemen.”

The man introduces himself as Vince Harper. After writing down all he knows and apologizing and thanking them profusely, he exits down the stairs, leaving the room in a tense silence. 

He looks mournfully at his empty cup of coffee. What a fucking morning. Then, he huffs a laugh to himself before speaking up.

“Control your boyfriend, Courf.”

Smiling, he cheerfully responds, “You know I can’t control him any more than you can, Enjolras.”


	4. lesbians (part 1)

        Enjolras has been in this business for several years. Projects have gone wrong. Good people have gotten hurt. His friends have gotten hurt. He’s gotten hurt. Enjolras has been able to deal with this, with varying degrees of success, but he’s dealt with it. Every time, he’s been able to compartmentalize and fix what he can. He’s surrounded himself with capable people. What he’s feeling now is completely foreign.

  
        “Bahorel’s in D.C with Jehan, Enj. We can’t have them going in without back-up.”

  
        “Éponine and Cosette can defend themselves.”

  
        Grantaire just looks at him. Being on the receiving end of this look numerous times, Enjolras can put together its meaning. He changes his argument.

  
        “Too many people would draw attention, R, you know this.”

  
        “They asked me to go with them. I’m going to go with them.”

  
        He curls his fingers into his hair in frustration, “We need this to be covert. The shit with Bischeque is still on everyone’s radar.”

  
        “I can do covert. Everyone and their mother knows I can do covert.”

  
        Something like anger vibrates in his chest. “If everyone knows, that’s not really covert, is it?”

  
        “Enj…”

  
        “You can’t be on this one.”

  
        “I’m going.”

  
        Enjolras meets R’s eyes. There isn’t an ounce of emotion in them. It’s chilling. He’s seen that stare posed over an unwavering gun, locked onto adversaries before throwing a punch, glared at targets, criminals, despicable congressmen and women, evil, heartless people, and now its pointed at him. This is how R approaches a job. Enjolras is an obstacle impeding his work, so every ‘clouding’ emotion is dropped. This, inexplicably, hurts.

  
        Enjolras tries to hide the sudden bruise in his chest by turning to face his desk. “Fine, then. I expect you to report back tomorrow before the end of day.”

  
        “Yes, Mister Enjolras, sir.”

  
        He even shuts the door behind him.

  
        He heard the mocking in his voice crystal clear. Why does he do this? Why does he play at formal and then tear away the rug a second later? Why does he try to drive him crazy? Why is he so impossible?

  
        The door reopens a second later.

  
        “I figured we were needed?”

  
        Whatever his face broadcasts, it makes Courfeyrac pause and let out a laugh. He needs new friends.

  
        “Yup. I was right. Right as rain. I took one look at Grantaire walking out of here and said… I said… what did I say?”

  
        “You said, ‘that’s a domestic dispute if I ever saw one.’”

  
        Enjolras groans, “’Ferre…”

  
        “And I even agreed. He looked like he’d just hit a puppy between the eyes.”

  
        He slouches into his chair and presses on the stress built up in his temples. Maybe they’ll just go away.

  
        Wood scrapes against the tile as chairs are adjusted. His shoulders sag. Ugh. Looks like he has to talk about this. No amount of waiting will ever dissuade them.

  
        Letting his hands fall into his lap, he explains the situation. He even points out how terrible R was being. Insubordinate. Stubborn. Impossible.

  
        “Yeah, how dare he want to help his friends? That scoundrel.”

  
        Enjolras glares at Courf. He’s not understanding. “It needs to be…”

  
        Combeferre cuts in, “Covert, yes. We heard that part. Grantaire is fully capable of acting quietly, as inverse as it is to his character.”

  
        “Also, you know this! You know R better than almost all of us! I can’t quite believe this is a ‘lack of trust’ thing.”

  
        No. He trusts R with everything he has. There were times where Enjolras had doubted him, but time and time again he’s been proven wrong. Only two other people in the world have reached that level, and they’re sitting in his office, looking at him with only the desire to understand.

  
        “If they are caught, they will be dropped into the hands of the Snake Eyes. They will mutilate, torture, and…”

  
        “They won’t.”

  
        Enjolras contorts his face into something of incredulity, “You’ve read up on these guys just as much as I have. You can’t tell me, and honestly believe, that they won’t…”

  
        Combeferre shifts the tone of his gaze to something sharper.

  
        “Éponine, Cosette, and Grantaire won’t get caught.”

  
        While rearranging his argument, it suddenly drops to the floor. He really doesn’t need to be arguing right now. Why is he arguing?

  
        Courfeyrac reaches over the desk and grabs his arm, “He’s going to be fine, Enj. Just believe in that.”

  
        He says nothing. He wants nothing more than to believe, but the indescribable knot in his chest stays. It’s sitting there, taking up way more space than it should, feeding him horrible images and sound bytes. Grantaire is bleeding, screaming, crying, begging...

  
        He feels sick. “I hate this.”

  
        Courf’s hand on his arm tightens.

  
        “It’s his job, Enj. Why else do you think he acts the way he does?”

  
        Enjolras, without any malice, replies to Combeferre, “’Cuz he’s a stubborn idiot.”

  
        “That too.”  
\---  
        Éponine knows R better than anyone in Les Amis. She can tell when something’s going on with him. Knowing better than to straight up ask, she decides to devise a strategy to pry it out. When something’s bugging him, he’ll rant about it. When something’s really bothering him? He’ll rant about it. When he’s hurting? Mums the word.

  
        She recalls that once, when they were absolutely plastered in her apartment, he’d revealed something crucial to understanding Grantaire. Flopped on her couch, lazily swaying with the last of the beer, he said:  
        “Talking is for distracting or revealing, Ep. You ‘gotta be good at it or everyone’ll know too much.”

  
        Being a person of more than two brain cells, she easily put together what it meant to be him. When he talks and talks and talks, he’s the one in control. Everyone’s perception of him is in his own hands. Everything he says is displayed as truth; it’s armor, and a lie, in disguise. He’s good at talking, in his own definition, of course. He’s very good at distracting. Sometimes, though, when he’s hurt, he begins to reveal. That’s when he shuts up.

  
        Sitting across from her, moving with the rickety jerking of the subway car, he’s saying nothing. She leans forward.

  
        “’Wanna get super pissed after this is over?”

  
        “Do you think they’ll get mad at me if I smoke in here?” He says, blatantly sidestepping the question.

  
        She plays it right back. “I heard there’s a dive-y little sports bar down the road from the inn. Seems right up our alley.”

  
        “It says ‘No Smoking’ on the wall, but I’ve seen at least three people high outta’ their minds on here.”

  
        “It’s pretty underground, too. No one there will cooperate with the police if it comes to that.”

  
        “That being said, they probably smoked before getting on.”

  
        Cosette sighs loudly, “Oh would you two cut it out.”

  
        Grantaire grins, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “You’re right, Cosette. I should just bite the bullet.”

  
        She doesn’t smile back, “Tell us what’s going on with you and Enjolras or I’ll break your foot.”

  
        Éponine chuckles. That’s one way to do it.

  
        “These are steel-toed boots.”

  
        “You’ve got fingers, too.”

  
        He pauses, cigarette an inch from his mouth. Éponine can see the gears turning in his head. He knows better than to call Cosette’s bluff. She’s sweet when she wants, but don’t fucking try her.

  
        “He doesn’t think I can do my job,” he says, carefully.

  
        Éponine coughs out, “ _Bullshit_.”

  
        R rolls his eyes. “Well then ask him what crawled up his ass. He kept going on about ‘covert’ like I’d never fucking heard the word before.”

  
        While this lands, he takes the opportunity to light his cigarette. Like it would take that long for Éponine to see what’s going on.

  
        “He didn’t want you on this one.”

  
        Cosette presses the back of her hand to her forehead, “Oh no, what a jerk. Your boyfriend doesn’t want you in danger. How despicable.”

  
        “Sarcasm isn’t a good look on you, ‘sette.”

  
        “Every look is a good look on her.”

  
        Cosette leans harder into her side, resting her head on Éponine’s shoulder.

  
        “ _Lesbians_ ,” Grantaire mutters, “…and it’s not that.”

  
        “Of course it is. Don’t be an idiot.”

  
        “You’re the idiot.” Grantaire fires back, a witty and clever comeback indeed. “Enj doesn’t get ‘scared’ about shit like this.”

  
        Cosette beats her to the punch. “He’s human, just like everybody else. Just fucking talk to him. Your weird ass coping mechanism clearly isn’t doing you any favors.”

  
        Cosette swearing at him does the trick. He sits back, draws from his cigarette, and sighs.

  
        “Who let you two cohabitate? Seriously, someone dropped the ball here.”


	5. lesbians (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh boyo

             If he’s being completely honest, he didn’t like the idea of this “mission.” They will be stepping into the muckiest of muck, the filth under the crud on his boots, stuck in the tread. These were professionals of the worst kind.

            He heard one of them has died three times, on public record, only to resurface for the forth time the same week of the mysterious assassination of an American diplomat. He was a prick, so Grantaire isn’t feeling too mournful, but— holy Christ. He has the right to feel a little anxious.

            Standing outside the gated mansion, he recognizes that it’s a little late to back out. He’s not _that_ much of a dick.

            Éponine and Cosette have already snuck in using their creepy, frankly _terrifying_ methods that Grantaire refuses to watch out of principle. He doesn’t want to know what back-alley shit Éponine has corrupted into Cosette’s repertoire. Personally, the brain-picking, sickly-sweet behavior he’s seen exhibited by the former, adapted from the latter, was quite enough to squash his curiosity.

            Here he is. Not knowing, and how blissful that feels. The absence of that burdening knowledge could bloom a flower and rosy a baby’s cheeks.

            * _beep*_

The noise comes from his earpiece.

            Responding with two clicks, he sets for the main entrance.

 

            He should have known his drama wouldn’t be dropped once they entered the Murder Castle. It’d take a real dire situation to squash their nosy little spirits.

            “How do you suppose he’s ‘gonna apologize? My bet’s on flowers.”

            “Ép, it’s like you don’t know him at all. He’s definitely planning a night out—or a night in. If you know what I…”

            Grantaire sighs, loudly. “What, not enough drama in your perfect picturesque lesbian paradise that you feed off mine? Like vampires, you two.”

            “Not ‘gonna weigh in, maligned spouse? Not ‘gonna expect him to crawl to your feet, begging, with champagne and two dozen red ro…”

            Putting the full weight of his _exasperation_ in the sigh this time, he replies, “First of all, not married. Second of all, not getting married. Third of…”

            “WHAT?”

            Covert Ops. Stealth. Loud exclamations of surprise. All that and more on Grantaire’s House of Crime and Murder. Only on MTV.

            Apparently no amount of strength in his sighs will get the message across about _how bad a time this is._ After obnoxiously checking the still dark, still silent hallway for signs of danger, he conveys annoyance with an overblown roll of his eyes. Though, being behind them, and without proper lighting, he doubts they saw.

            “He’s fucking out his professional curiosity. By the looks of it, he’s almost done.”

            Someone hits him. Hard. That’s fair. Wait, no it’s not.

            “Don’t hit me, I’m right!”

            “ _Don’t hit me, I’m right!_ ”

            “I don’t sound like that.” He rubs the back of his head.

            “If you just fucking _talked_ about this shit with him, you wouldn’t be here. Dummy.” Cosette hisses.

            Arguing benefits no one in this situation, no matter how much he wants to. They’ll keep disagreeing, high on their unwavering affection for each other, convinced love is fucking everywhere. He’ll keep pissing them off. A little mobster will peek around the corner and, while they’re still viciously supporting his tenuous relationship, shoot them all in the forehead and steal their toenails.

            So, he seals his lips together and keeps walking.

           

            The office they’re headed for is in the heavily guarded center of this godforsaken fortress. They haven’t encountered any interference yet, but soon enough, these floors will be crawling with goons. Heavily armed goons with nothing to lose.

            His right hand hovers closer and closer to his holster the further they get. This place gives him the heebie-jeebies. The sooner they’re out, the better.

            A radio beeps some distance away.

“Stoneback, this is Blue Kite. No sign of the Red Flag down the left corridor. Heading to front.”

            Ugh.

            He leans forward to whisper, “You want to take this one?”

            The blonde head tilts to the side. “Okie dokie.”

            Cosette rushes forward on silent feet and turns the corner. Grantaire looks away. He hears a soft inhale, an unpleasant crunch, and a thud.

            Lifting his head, he is greeted with a sweet smile and a thumbs-up poking back into view. He shakes his head. His own grin is completely involuntary, and a little bit frightened.

            Éponine, with what must be impressive restraint, does not go to make out with her girlfriend, and instead crouches by the body. She pulls his radio, gun, and knife. The first item gets crushed under her heel, and the other two are pocketed. She sighs.

            “Red Flag. Do you think they know it’s us?”

            Grantaire grimaces. “Definitely can’t rule it out.”

            Cosette pouts.

            “They won’t be pulling their punches. We need to go for head shots if we plan to make it out of here.” Éponine stands, crossing her arms.

            He shrugs, “Doable.”

            They continue down the hall. Their steps are carefully soft against the stone floor. In this brutal silence, breaths echo like screams. Grantaire finds his own exhales growing shallower, trying to match the undisturbed emptiness around him. If anyone asked, he’d deny any feelings of intimidation. It’s hard, though, to reconcile that statement with the tightness in his chest.

            The dim light illuminates a hand, suddenly raised in front of him. They stop. Éponine then pulls her finger to her lips.

            Her rough whisper reverberates through the hall, “Part two, ladies.”

            Instead of groaning, like he so desperately wants to, he raises his eyebrows in lieu of another eye-roll.

As he steps in front of his friends, pulls his gun, and inhales in preparation, there’s only one thing running through his mind: Enjolras is going to fucking kill him.

 

 

            Bursting into the room, forgoing any greetings, Enjolras declares, “He hasn’t called yet.”

            Combeferre and Courfeyrac, thankfully used to his antics, only look up from their books as means of acknowledging his entrance.

            Impatient, he repeats himself.

            Combeferre sighs, “It’s not tomorrow yet.”

            “I can’t believe he’s making me wait! He knows how much I didn’t want him going on this mission, and still… He just goes! He waltzed into a dead end and now I… now I have to sit here, waiting for his stubborn ass to let me know he’s okay! I can’t believe…”

            “Alright.”

             Enjolras forces his mouth shut. Even he knows better than to try to combat Combeferre’s patient voice. “Grantaire’s not making you wait ‘just ‘cuz.’”

            “I…” He trails off.

            “That’s it. Use your big-boy words.” Courfeyrac, being needlessly cheeky, adds, closing his book.

            “Shut up. I just need to know he’s okay.”

            Combeferre nods, looking painfully understanding. Before he can apply any words of comfort, his phone erupts from the bedside table.

            Everyone flinches at the manmade obstruction. All are then unforgiving in their glares for breaking the unsaid rule of quietness.

            “Hello?... Hi, Ép. Everything oka… What?”

            At the sound of her name, Enjolras almost leaps to take the phone. He restrains himself to taking one step forward. Somehow maintaining his composure… sort of… he calls out.

            “What’s going on?”

            Combeferre puts a hand up. The universal sign for “shut up.”

            “Why didn’t you call Joly?”

            Joly is their resident medical professional. Why would they need a doctor?

            “Is someone hurt?” Someone. Everyone knows where his mind goes first. He takes another step forward. He can hear Éponine’s tinny voice from over the line.

            Courfeyrac is then holding onto his wrist. He doesn’t remember him getting out of bed. He doesn’t remember all this panic building. He was fine just a second ago.

            “No, he was right. You were good not to remove it.”

            Fucking hell. He forces his arm from its manacle. Almost immediately, two hands cup his face. He opens his eyes to Courfeyrac’s own bottle-browns. He must’ve closed his at some point. His mouth is moving. Oh, he’s saying something.

            “What?”

            “He’s fine.”

            His question still stands. “Sounds like a stab wound to me. Those are decidedly _not_ fine.”

            “Enjolras, listen. He’s fine. It was a cheap shot to the gut. Missed all the important stuff.”

            Suddenly, everything was clear. Combeferre was no longer on the call. The phone is back on the bedside table. Courfeyrac is standing next to the bed, hands resting on Enjolras’s shoulders. The down comforter is in light disarray, wrinkles thrown by his sudden intrusion, likely. One of the books is on the floor. It must have fallen when Courf got up.

            He shakes his head, only slightly embarrassed.

            “He’s fine?”

            “Yeah.”

            He’s fine. The relief is a short-lived high. It’s replaced with something a touch more fiery, a bit more resolute.

            “I’m going to fucking kill him.”


	6. easy

            The simple things make the world livable. His old and ripped-up backpack, stale air repeating itself in multiple breaths, hard seats bruising his back, jerky stop-and-start motion, the dull murmurs of fervent conversationalists; they all remind him of how fucking ready he is to be home.

            He’s been “out of town” for months. He’d never felt such desperation for his comfortable, beat-up mattress, stale beer, and the reassuring sturdiness of the Musain’s wooden chairs. What he wouldn’t give for the whirlwind of energy, cataclysmic eruption of debate that his home would bring–

            _“This is the final stop. Please make sure to gather all of your belongings and exit the train in an orderly fashion. Hope you enjoyed your trip, and have a pleasant evening.”_

He told Bahorel to meet him outside of the station. All he’s got left is a couple minutes of brushing shoulders with strangers. He can do this. He can practice a little patience. God, people are slow– leisurely strolling from the train over the concrete. This is what he gets for choosing the early morning commute. _Just a little patience._

            The sun is brand new over the city. The air is cool, slowly being warmed. He would stop to enjoy it if it weren’t for his delightfully boisterous partner catching his eye.

            The massive man is easily seen over the heads of the crowd. As if he can’t recall his size, he’s jumping up and down and waving his arms.

            “Feuilly! Feuilly! Over here!”

            Finally breaking through the crowd, reaching his side, he can’t help but comment. “You’re like a hundred-fifty-pound lapdog.”

            Delightedly ignoring the sentiment, he replies, “God, it’s been ages. You’ve missed some crazy shit.”

            All of a sudden, he’s being lifted off the ground. The arms around him are painfully tight, but if he’s being honest with himself, the smell of coffee and their one-bedroom apartment on Bahorel’s shirt makes him smile. This is way better than his imagination, so he easily ignores his impending suffocation.

            Dropped onto his feet, he looks up into Baz’s eyes. The grin on his face says nothing but trouble. “What?”

             The grin widens. “Grantaire got stabbed!”

            Feuilly laughs, knocking his head backward and recalling the conversation the three of them had about how lazy your parries would have to be to let a _whole knife_ slip by.

            “Again? Love’s got him blind.”

            Bahorel giggles, “Yeah, don’t mention that to Enjolras. He was mad enough knowing about this _one._ Fucking imagine…”

            His laughter is renewed, picturing Enjolras’ face. “How doesn’t he know about the other one?”

            “Grantaire can be smart when he needs to be.” Bahorel says, “God, you should’ve been there.” 

            Feuilly pauses. He knows Bahorel didn’t mean how it sounded, but… it’s not an argument they haven’t had before. Feuilly is, in simple terms, Les Amis foreign ambassador. It’s not an official title by any means. He negotiates with a variety of people across the world: other revolutionary groups, gangs, enforcers, and the occasional government employee. It’s an important job… it just means he’s not home a lot of the time.

            Noticing his change in mood, Bahorel’s more observant than he lets on, he wraps an arm over Feuilly’s shoulders and starts walking.

            “Everyone missed you, man. We’re having a proper welcome back tomorrow at the Musain.”

            “Not today?”

            “Figured you’d want a minute to settle in.”

            Feuilly smiles. “Totally not for your selfish reasons, of course.”

            Bahorel shoves him before pulling him back under his chin.

            Yeah, it’s good to be back.

\----

 

           

            “…and _then_ he acted like our leadership was compromised ‘cuz of lack of professionalism.”

            Bahorel let out a quick, derisive laugh. “And the fucker’s never seen one our meetings either.”

            Feuilly chuckles silently, resting his wrist over his eyes. “If anyone did we’d have no support at all.”

            Bahorel grabbed that hand, lifting it up to press the joint into his fingers.

            “Thanks.”

            He exhales, admiring the cloud above them. It looks soft, and though he knows it’ll feel like nothing, he reaches up and swirls his hand through it. Unperturbed, it rushes away.

            The sun is setting through the window behind him, and the orange light casts navy shadows throughout the bedroom. Feeling eyes on him, he turns his head to the right, and there, without breaking contact, Bahorel smooths a ripple in the blanket obstructing his view. They stare at each other. Embarrassment has long since disappeared between them. Easily, they just look, taking in the other. Feuilly can’t think of a time in his life that he’s been more comfortable.

            “I’ll postpone my next trip.”

            “Nah.”

            “Bahorel…”

            He waves his hand, dismissing the notion and the smoke settled around them. “You’ll be back.”

            “Ok.”

            Eventually, after safely extinguishing embers, Feuilly settles into the quilts and pillows, letting his eyes hover closed. A day full of relaxing holds onto sleep from the previous night. It’s easy to allow his mind to wander, drift quickly back into the dreamscape he’d left. Bursting reds and yellows give, quietly making way for indigo darkness. Distracted by once-formless ideas, he almost doesn’t register the warm pressure wrapping around his fingers.

           

            Hours later, a number imprecise for using the sun as his ruler, he opens his eyes again. Not quite overhead, beams blare through the pane, an alarm clock in its own right.

            Today feels different. The last few months felt like regimented blocks: a step and a plan and a contract. Now feels like a former maze with broken down walls. He can step with his right or left without even considering it. While he enjoys puzzles when they sit before him, he likes, also, the simplicity of free time.

            In the next room, there’s a clattering of pans and cupboard doors.

            “I hope you’re not trying to cook!” He yells.

            “Fuck you!”

            Then he hears laughter. Not Bahorel’s.

            He leaps from underneath the covers, not bothering to look for a T-shirt. To his joy, and pure relief, it’s Grantaire making a mess of the kitchen.

            “Fuck, yes.”

            Grantaire lets out a chuckle that falls into a groan as Feuilly collides into him, immediately wrapping his arms around his back.

            “Miss my pancakes _that_ much, kiddo?”

            Feuilly holds on tighter as they sway. “Older than you.”

            “Oy. More baking, less groping, R.” Bahorel says, still at the counter.

            For that, R pinches his ass.

            Feuilly smirks, then steps back and smacks his butt as he goes to sit next to his boyfriend.

            “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

            Grantaire, pouring flour into a bowl, makes a face.

            He says, in a tone that suggests his doubt was ridiculous, “I promised I’d make you breakfast when you got back. Who do you take me for, kid?”

            “Still older than you, and it was several months ago.”

            “You think I promise to make _my pancakes_ to random people on the street? You gotta’ _earn_ these pancakes. You gotta’ _deserve_ this homemade deliciousness. You gotta’ be an angel gracing the Earth with your goodness to get these pancakes. Food of the fucking Gods, these are.”

            Bahorel rolls his eyes. “Okay… They’re alright.”

            “Blaspheme!” Grantaire shouts, shaking a dripping eggshell in his direction.

            Feuilly can’t help but smile. Of all the skills Grantaire values in himself, his pancake-making is number one. And they’re damn good, even if Bahorel won’t admit it.

            Speaking of: “Enjolras enjoy the food of the Gods often?” Feuilly asks, knowing Grantaire’s metaphors fly away from him in that respect. Bahorel looks at him sharply.

            A drawer slams shut.

            Gesturing at him with a whisk but not meeting his eyes, Grantaire says, “Enj got sick of pancakes.”

            “Oh, knock it off.”

            “What?” Grantaire looks perplexed, and perhaps a bit comical, whisking rapidly.

            “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It’s getting ridiculous.”

            Bahorel looks between them, expression increasing in confusion.

            Feuilly pats his shoulder. “Enjolras is gone on you, dude. Unbunch your panties and apologize for scaring the shit out of him.”

            Grantaire opens his mouth. Closes it. Then says, “I’ve been getting a lot of relationship advice lately. None put so succinctly as that.”

            “Clearly.”

            Later, having dined on godly cakes, soaked in divine, maple-sugar elixir, Feuilly feels sated. Puzzles are better, easier, when they’re his friends.


End file.
